The drive leading up to the mansion was long, flanked by naked trees on either side of the narrow lane. In the darkness, the claustrophobic tangle of branches threatened to squeeze the courage from his chest. He gripped the steering wheel, understanding the fear was displaced, leftover from when he was a kid. It was there nonetheless, causing his heart to pound a staccato.
He set his jaw and reminded himself he’d outgrown fear years ago. By age twelve, he’d resolved to be strong. No matter what punishment awaited him behind the mansion walls, he would take it. He had, too. Taken the slaps that graduated to closed-fist punches, taken the shoves down the stairs, taken the burns, taken the cuts.
Back then he refused to cower in the wake of his belligerent father. Refused to give the old man an ounce of satisfaction. And now? There was no way in hell he’d let Robert Pate haunt him from beyond the grave.
He parked off to the side of the cobblestone, not bothering with the six-car garage to his left. The idea of shutting Trixie in there bugged him.
Through her windshield, he peered up at the structure more resembling a castle than a house. Built from massive square blocks, he could admit from a mason’s perspective, the stonework was impressive. The behemoth boasted a pair of pointed turrets as well, their gold tips scratching the bleak sky.
Foreboding. Desolate. Oppressive.
Welcome home.
Involuntarily, he shuddered.
He got out of the car as a floodlight on a sensor lit the side of the house. A big white dog with brown patches appeared from around the corner, its breed a mystery. As a guess, he’d say part Saint Bernard. It lacked the thickness in its body, the thing too skinny and filthy to be owned by anyone. Or maybe it had been Gertrude’s and she’d left it to fend for itself.
That sounded like her.
Donovan stayed still in case the dog was aggressive—wouldn’t that be his luck—but rather than charge him, the beast turned and skulked around back, vanishing into the shadows.
He snapped the roof onto Trixie in case the skies gave into rain, then opened the back hatch, the hinges whining. Two suitcases and a duffel bag were the sum of his luggage for the stay. When he’d packed back in New York, the plan—still the plan as soon as Sofie relocated the dinner—was to stay long enough to clear out the mountains of Gertrude’s crap prior to selling the mansion to Alessandre.
Donovan had planned on hiring someone to clear it out for him, but now that he was in town, may as well do it himself. Hiring someone would be the coward’s way out. The mansion was his load to bear.
Like Sofie, he thought with a frown.
But he wasn’t one to avoid the monsters lurking in the dark. He preferred to deal with things head on. Cheaper than therapy.
Hefting his bags to the covered porch, he dropped the suitcase and dug the house key from his pocket.
A charity for battered children, he thought as he wiggled the key into the lock. His grandmother’s hypocrisy knew no bounds. He heard scurrying in the grass at the side of the house, reminding him he wasn’t exactly alone.
Look at the bright side, you inherited Cujo.
“And I’m not even inside yet.”
When the door wouldn’t budge, he turned his body to the side and slammed a shoulder into it. The frame swelled whenever it rained, and given the state of the soggy, overgrown brush in the flowerbeds, the puddles gathered in the missing cobblestones in the driveway, it had rained earlier today.
The foyer opened to more dark, but he knew the layout. Straight ahead a curved staircase with crimson carpet soared into the darkened second floor. To his left, an equally dark dining hall led to the kitchen where Caroline fixed nearly every meal he’d eaten. To the right…
The library.
Memories of Sofie flashed in his mind. The cushy give of her backside in his palms, the lushness of her lips, the sigh sounding from her throat whenever he kissed her… every inch of her so different from what he’d been used to.
Gentle. Caring. Soft.
No wonder he’d freaked out.
He came back to town to face his demons. His father or grandmother must have tipped them off. They’d gotten the memo and formed a line, coming at him one after the other since he crossed the Ohio border.
He dropped his bags at his feet and took in the curved staircase in front of him. Another memory hit. One where he was sliding down the banister backward, hair flying around his head. The feel of the waistband of his pants cutting into his belly as his father lifted him from the banister and threw him to the floor below.
Donovan’s hand went to his broken collarbone, his eyes straying to the hallway vanishing into the darkness.
The hallway he’d been tearing through after being explicitly instructed not to run indoors. Robert stuck his foot out; Donovan ended up with a chipped front tooth. His tongue brushed the cap there now. That injury, like the others, concealed.
More rooms were visible from the foyer, causing memory after memory to slam into him. And this was only the first floor. There were thirteen bedrooms, eight bathrooms. Thirty-five rooms total. All haunted with memories he thought he’d escaped.
Absently, he rubbed his thumb along the star tattoo on his index finger.
Sofie’s words from earlier surfaced. Open Arms provides emergency shelter and foster care for abused children…
Kids here in the Cove enduring the same horrific treatment he’d endured. Some probably had it worse. A chill skated his spine. Faceless, helpless. Frightened.
Other than Caroline, he had no safe haven when he was a boy. He lied to her about the cuts and bruises, saying he’d fallen off his bike or scraped his arms rock climbing. If she had known the truth, she would have confronted Robert and Gertrude—would have lost her job. The idea of being stuck in this miserable place without her kindness had been unbearable.
As an adult, he’d stopped sugarcoating Gertrude’s and Robert’s actions and named it what it was: abuse. His father harming him, and his grandmother turning a blind eye was… wrong. Simple as that.
It was just as wrong for Donovan to ignore children in need now.
“Shit.” The quietly spoken word bounced off the foyer walls, echoing up the stairs and dissipating into the blackness.
What if an outside party had intervened on his behalf? What would life have been like for him then—for him now—if someone had come to his rescue? Someone who could have championed him when he’d been young enough to be saved.
His past was written. He couldn’t change it. But if he denied Open Arms, and Sofie, the upcoming charity dinner, he was as big a hypocrite as Gertrude.
He pulled a hand over his face in frustrated acceptance.
Robert Pate’s demon lurked in every cobwebbed corner of this place. Knowing he was looking on made Donovan want to defy him. Because fuck him.
“Bring it,” he growled, his voice echoing through the quiet hall. He kicked the front door closed behind him, lifted his bags, and turned for the library, where there was a very uncomfortable sofa holding its own host of memories.
He’d left Sofie behind, having taken her gentleness, her softness, her sweetness for himself. In true Pate fashion, he hadn’t given her a damn thing in return.
He gave the couch a long, hard look. There was only one path out of bad memories. It wasn’t to go around. They couldn’t be avoided. He had to go straight through.
Tomorrow he’d go back to Sofie’s shop. But he wasn’t going to drag her to Scott Torsett to void the contract.
Open Arms would have their charity dinner in the mansion. He could still gut the place in the meantime and sell to Alessandre after. With that behind him, maybe he’d finally be out the other side.
Straight through.
It was the only way.
Sofie didn’t normally make New Year’s resolutions. But this year, overcome by melancholy, or maybe champagne, she had made one. At the stroke of midnight, she’d stood on the balcony of a huge mansion atop Peak Point belonging to one of her wine v
endors—and drank out of a crystal champagne flute she’d worried she might break and have to pay for.
She did get a kiss at midnight, though. Granted, it was from her best friend and on the cheek, but hey, better than nothing. After many, many failed dates the previous year, Sofie was beginning to believe she would forever be single.
“You’ll find him, honey,” Faith had said after the peck on Sofie’s cheek. “God’s just very, very picky for you.”
After the run-in with Donovan last night, Sofie was beginning to think God had a very bad sense of humor.
But that was neither here nor there. What was here and there was her new attitude she’d temporarily forgotten she’d adopted for the year.
Struggle now, strength tomorrow.
She ran the tip of her finger over the letters written in Sharpie across the top of her desk calendar. The problem with her mantra was that tomorrow never seemed to come. The struggle part, she had perfected.
Donny Pate’s arrival in town was the icing on the crap cake.
Or maybe she was being melodramatic. A possibility since she’d skipped her morning coffee. She’d skipped it because a certain someone was supposed to bring her a cup of morning coffee… But then, had she really expected Donny to do anything he said he would? What did a guy like him consider “morning” anyway? It was just after nine now, which was well into morning in her book. Which was why when Faith called from Cup of Jo’s offering to deliver, Sofie hadn’t hesitated to shout, yes!
The cheery bell above her shop’s door clanged and Faith pushed in with one narrow hip. Her hands were full of Cup of Jo’s white chocolate mocha lattes, but Sofie knew her sugar-loving friend’s coffee was laced with extra, extra syrup.
The promise of caffeine and sugar answered, she started to smile, but felt it fade when she registered the look of fury gracing Faith’s delicate bone structure.
Expectantly, Sofie stood.
Faith tromped to the desk, delivered her coffee, and blurted, “I hate men.”
On the heels of Donovan barging into her shop last night, Sofie found herself in agreement. She was about to open her mouth to say as much, when her best friend did something Sofie had seen her do only once before: she burst into tears.
“He texted me while I was at the coffee shop.”
Faith sniffed, blinking furiously. As fast as the tears came, they quelled.
“He” was Michael, the man who had recently incurred a title change. Three weeks ago, he went from fiancé to ex-fiancé when Faith caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Literally.
The other woman’s name was Cookie. She was twenty-three and had a tramp stamp. Faith saw it in detail considering Cookie had been—as she put it—“riding Michael like a bucking bronco” when Faith discovered them on the living room rug of the house she and Michael used to share.
“What did he say?” Sofie asked.
Faith gave her a bland look, wiping her eyes. “ ‘Hey.’ ”
Sofie blinked. “That’s it? ‘Hey’? Did you respond?”
“No.”
“Smart.”
“Yet I’m crying.” Almost violently, Faith plucked one, two, then a third tissue from the box on the corner of the desk. “I’m an idiot,” she said, dabbing her eyes.
Knowing her friend was hurting, Sofie moved out from behind the desk to take the empty guest chair next to her.
Thinking of Donny’s casually sensual smile and all his broad tallness, Sofie argued, “No, you’re not. Men are idiots. They are also a necessary evil.”
Faith let out a feeble laugh of agreement.
The fact that Michael cheated on statuesque, runway model–worthy Faith with a girl way too young for him left little hope for the rest of the female population. Sofie didn’t have Faith’s height, metabolism, or cheekbones. She was instead gifted with wide hips and a burning desire to wear skinny jeans that would never be fulfilled. Yes, even bodily perfection hadn’t prevented inevitable heartache for Faith.
There was no hope for either of them, which made Sofie sad. But there was one thing she could do to make it better.
“Know what you need, honey?”
Faith batted her lashes. Her brief pretty-cry hadn’t so much as run her mascara. “A lobotomy?” she deadpanned.
“Shoes,” Sofie answered with a giggle. If there was one thing she was good at, it was shopping for shoes. And helping her friends shop for shoes.
“Funny you should ask what I need. It’s kind of why I’m here with a Grande cup of butter-you-up.”
“Well, it’s working.” The white chocolate mocha was sweet, delicious, completely fattening, and horrible for her metabolism. Cup of Jo’s lattes were the work of the devil, like every other thing delicious and completely bad for her.
Like tall, sexy, mansion-inheriting, virginity-stealing exes.
“You know how you are looking for an assistant?” Faith asked, snapping Sofie out of the pity party she’d started planning.
Sofie didn’t need to turn her head to know there was a massive to-do list with three pages of bullet-pointed tasks sitting on her desk. Plans for the Open Arms dinner. Had Donovan shown this morning like he’d threatened, she would have again refused to void the contract. No way would she relocate this, her biggest, most meaningful project, because it was inconvenient for him.
A twelve-page address list sat next to the to-do list, some with addresses, others requiring a phone call to get addresses. Those calls needed to be made, and when the invitations arrived, they would need to be mailed. Then there was the design and printing of the table tents. She still needed to gather the logos and other artwork for local businesses sponsoring the event. Not to mention her e-mail inbox overflowing with responses from DJs, caterers, and pricing for gifts for each and every attendee…
Her chest grew tight and she lifted a hand to her throat. Yes. She still needed an assistant. Badly.
“Sofe?”
She blinked over at Faith, whose face was a mask of concern. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“I quit Abundance Market this morning. I went in to open and there was Cookie. Michael hired her. Like me working with that slimehole wasn’t bad enough.” Faith’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Now she’s there.” She shook her head. “I’ve moved from paycheck to unemployment line.” Smiling prettily, she tacked on, “Unless you still need an assistant.”
Sympathy for her best friend aside, Sofie felt weight instantly lift from her shoulders at the prospect of help.
“You’d better not be kidding,” she warned. “I have been doing interviews for a month and haven’t liked anyone.”
Faith’s pretty smile turned into a satisfied grin.
“I’m not sure I can pay what you were making at Abundance.” Sofie bit her lip. She wasn’t “not sure,” she was sure, sure. The salary she’d earmarked for her assistant wasn’t in the same league as what Faith had previously earned. “As far as benefits go, the insurance plan I have only covers me personally, and since the position is part-time…”
Faith’s hand rested on Sofie’s, comforting her when things should be the other way around. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”
This was why she loved her best friend. Faith was one of the few people who went to bat for her. Faith had money. Plenty of money. But here she was, taking a job she didn’t technically need, bailing Sofie out when they both knew she could have been hired anywhere else and earned twice as much for her efforts.
“As long as you’re sure…” Sofie found herself arguing.
“Are you kidding? Who would I rather work with than my best friend? Trust me, this will be a dream after having to show up early, stay late, and do the liquor order for the entire store.”
Sofie may be a people pleaser, but she knew better than to argue further. “You’re hired. The Open Arms charity dinner isn’t going to plan itself.”
And for the first time in a long time, she was in way over her head.
Donovan’s angry, handsome face flashed in h
er mind.
In more ways than one.
An hour and a half later, Faith was set up at the desk while Sofie hunched over her laptop on a guest chair. She’d been answering e-mails for the last hour and had tasked Faith with calling the list of invitees to ensure there were complete addresses for the invitations.
Faith insisted on starting today, claiming she could use the distraction.
“Thank you, Mrs. Robinson.” She hung up the phone and said to Sofie, “Mrs. Robinson. Oh, the irony.”
Sofie laughed at the joke, knowing Faith was referring to her famous mother’s reputation for bedding younger men.
They’d been so preoccupied with the planning, Sofie hadn’t had a chance to tell her best friend about the man who’d darkened her doorstep last night. When the string of bells over her door clanged, and Donovan Pate strode into her shop, tall, dark, and broody, she realized her faux pas.
Faith had worked at the Wharf when Sofie did, so it was no surprise she recognized Donny on sight. “Oh my God.”
“A little less holy,” Sofie muttered. She had been prepared to confront him this morning. Now after lunch, she’d assumed he wasn’t coming in. She was no longer prepared.
“What is he doing here?” Faith whispered.
Sofie didn’t have a chance to answer. Donovan strode over and slapped a single silver key onto the desktop calendar. More specifically, on top of the letter S in strength. Sofie’s eyes tracked from the key, to the fingers resting on it, and up the tattooed arm of the man who had delivered it.
“Donny Pate,” Faith drawled.
Folding his arms, he spared her a brief glance.
“Donovan,” he corrected. Then to Sofie, “Here’s the deal. I could fight you if I wanted to. Scott Torsett is an old friend of mine. Don’t think for a moment he wouldn’t find a loophole around my delusional grandmother’s contract.”
Rescuing the Bad Boy Page 4